


not swallowed in the sea

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Brendon’s nineteenth birthday today. Not that anyone at Morris celebrates birthdays. Or holidays. Or anything, really. Anything that could cause emotions is strictly forbidden, to prevent outbursts in the children.</p><p>Outbursts get punished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not swallowed in the sea

**Author's Note:**

> I saw X-Men and I should basically never be allowed to see movies because all I do is immediately create Brencer AU's. Sidenote: do you know how difficult it is to come up with non-cliche powers? Do you? It's very hard. 
> 
> Title from Coldplay's 'Swallowed in the Sea'.

Some of Brendon’s first memories were of his house flooding. That happened a lot, and after, his mother would always cry and lock herself in his parents’ bedroom.

Brendon was too young, then, to understand what was happening.

It wasn’t until he was nine or ten that he started connecting the strange occurrences around his house to himself – his mother refused to let him play at other kids’ houses, or go to extracurricular piano class, or anything beyond school, really, and that upset Brendon all the time.

When he got upset, the faucets tended to break even if no one was anywhere near them. Or fire hydrants, if they were in public. And one memorable time, the sprinklers everywhere for two blocks turned on full force.

It wasn’t until he was twelve that his parents totally cracked and began screaming at him. Brendon was young and afraid and just realizing that these things happened and he made them happen, so it only upset him more when they demanded he control it when he couldn’t even begin to try.

They couldn’t handle their youngest son anymore. They’d never even interacted with an Obscure before, much less had one in the family. They were religious, and they believed Obscures were abominations.

On a crisp October morning, they packed Brendon up and drove him seven hours north through the desert, in silence, and left him at the Morris Institute for Different Children.

They didn’t even say goodbye.

\--

It’s Brendon’s nineteenth birthday today. Not that anyone at Morris celebrates birthdays. Or holidays. Or anything, really. Anything that could cause emotions is strictly forbidden, to prevent outbursts in the children.

Outbursts get punished.

Anyway. Brendon knows it’s his birthday at least, though it doesn’t make sitting though ten hours of school any better. You get two electives a year at Morris, and if you’re good and don’t have outbursts, you can pick your electives. If you go three years with perfect behavior, you get three electives and one core class removed.

This is the first year Brendon’s been able to have three electives. His outbursts were some of the hardest to control. Mr. Morris tried everything with Brendon to get him to suppress his “different abilities.” Nothing worked; it just seemed to make them worse. The humiliation in front of the school was awful and the caning made him cry for hours and hours, but neither worked as well as Brendon being shut in the darkroom for six days.

The darkroom is every student’s worst fear realized. It’s a room with a heavy metal door that requires two people to open, with no windows and a tiny vent that only allows just enough air to keep the person inside alive.

They shut the door and it is _dark_.

That was when Brendon was fifteen. After he was released, he gave himself horrible headaches and nausea in his effort to squash his powers - _different abilities_. It eventually worked, and Brendon was praised for it.

It makes him sick. Brendon is still afraid of the dark.

Brendon goes to Biology and English and History and the mandatory Suppression Refresher course, but other than that he got to pick what he wanted to take. He really wants to learn how to swim but Mr. Morris was quick to refuse, claiming it would tempt Brendon far too much. He chose a free period, a quiet reading period, and a music class.

It’s hard to decide what his favorite is.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Brendon swears under his breath, looking quickly around to make sure he was out of earshot. Swearing is strictly forbidden, as is running in the halls, talking past lights out, hiding things from room inspectors, learning outside the curriculum, and, of course, using your pow- _different abilities_.

He sticks his cut finger in his mouth, grimacing at the taste of blood but not wanting to ruin his uniform- that’s against the rules, too.

“What happened?” Brendon jumps before turning around, smiling when he sees his stand partner for music.

“I cut myself trying to open the door,” he explains, gesturing to the bathroom door.

“Dang,” Patrick sympathizes. “You won’t be able to play guitar today. Or drums. You know how Andy is about safety.”

“Yeah,” Brendon sighs. Drums are his favorite. Andy knows, and Brendon secretly thinks he might be Andy’s favorite for that sole reason. He doesn’t even know why Andy teaches here, really, because Brendon saw a button on his bag rallying against Proposition 8, and when Brendon looked it up during free period, he saw it was a proposed bill requiring Obscures to have a curfew and restricting them to certain areas of the cities they lived in.

(Brendon narrowly avoided being caught researching. He couldn’t even kind of bullshit that one into somehow being a part of his classes.)

Patrick glances around, then pushes Brendon quickly into the bathroom.

“What the hell,” Brendon hisses. “We’ll be late.”

Tardiness is not acceptable. They live in the school and therefore there is no reason to be late, or so Mr. Morris theorizes.

“Andy won’t mark us, now come here,” Patrick whispers. “I want to try something. I’ve been practicing.”

“Practicing what?” Brendon asks with trepidation. “ _Patrick_. What if you got caught?”

“Caught doing what?” Patrick asks innocently. “Having a small cut? Shut up. Let me try.”

“Ok,” Brendon acquiesces. “Hurry up.”

Patrick makes a face at him before taking a deep breath and blowing gently across Brendon’s finger. Brendon gapes as it seems to stitch itself closed, slowly at first, but speeding up as Patrick breathes again.

“Holy shit,” Brendon whispers, looking up at Patrick. “ _How_ -”

“I have a free period, too,” Patrick huffs. “And also, I’m really good at fake research, which is actually _believable_ coming from me.”

“Whatever,” Brendon rolls his eyes. “But - you’re so good at suppressing, I always try to be like you.”

Patrick sighs.

“I’m also really good at lying, Brendon,” he says sadly. “It’s also different with me. It’s not exactly a power that randomly outbursts. I have to actually summon it. Yours -”

“Just happens,” Brendon finishes, thinking of the busted pipe that earned him the darkroom. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and he sounds sad. “Brendon, I just - I wish yours was something you could get away with practicing, too.”

Brendon bites his lip. He’s not even allowed to take _showers_ alone. Yeah, the attendee turns around, but he looks at Brendon quick if the water makes any sort of different noise.

“Come on,” he says, instead of thinking of something to say. “Music.”

\--

“I had free period today,” Brendon says ask they exit the music room and head to the cafeteria. He doesn’t even need to see Patrick’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“Wow, really?” Patrick asks. “Incredible! I couldn’t tell! Since we, you know, _share the same table_.”

Brendon gives him a perfunctory punch on the arm.

“I _meant_ ,” he continues, lowering his voice. “That I did research today.”

Patrick’s head whips around so fast Brendon is slightly afraid that he’ll get whiplash.

“Really?” Patrick asks in an undertone, grinning at Brendon’s eager nod. “Well?”

“Science, blah blah blah,” Brendon says, gesturing at the air. “Lots of science.”

Patrick groans.

“Most things are made of water,” Brendon continues conversationally, walking on like Patrick didn’t just drop his lunch tray on the linoleum.

“ _Brendon_ ,” Patrick hisses, scrambling to grab his stuff. “You don’t just drop a bomb like that and leave ok, you gotta give a guy _time_ -”

“Patrick,” Brendon interrupts in a whisper. He feels giddy. This must be what getting drunk feels like. “ _Most things are made of water_.”

“Yes, I heard you the first time,” Patrick mutters.

“D’you think that means-”

“I don’t think you should be asking Patrick what that means,” Brendon’s stomach immediately turns over at Mr. Morris‘s sickly sweet voice. “He’s not in Biology with you, is he? I thought he was taking Chemistry.”

“I am, sir,” Patrick whispers. “I just - I’d like to do Biology _too_ -”

“Well, ask for it next year,” Mr. Morris interrupts. “In the meantime, please find another lunch partner as Brendon here needs to come with me to my office.”

Brendon goes immediately cold all over. He numbly follows Mr. Morris down the wide aisle between the rows of lunch tables. It’s almost comical how silence falls as Brendon walks, head down, behind the smirk of the Headmaster. Brendon can feel their eyes burning into him, can hear the hushed whispers, the gossip they’re dying to spread the second he and Mr. Morris leave the cafeteria.

“You know why you’re here, of course,” Mr. Morris’s voice snaps Brendon out of the haze he’d bee walking in. He cuts his eyes from Mr. Morris, looking down at the hardwood office floor-when did they even get to Mr. Morris’s office?

“No, sir,” Brendon replies belatedly. It’s a lie, and he’s sure Mr. Morris knows it, but it’s always better to claim innocence on the off chance that they don’t have evidence.

Mr. Morris scowls.

“For the third time in a month, you have been caught studying outside the curriculum,” he spits, leaning over his desk to look Brendon in the eye. “Who knows how many other times you’ve done it and got away with it.”

“I haven’t,” Brendon tries, but one look from Mr. Morris quiets him.

“You asked this semester to learn to swim,” Mr. Morris continues. “What did I say to that?”

“You said no, sir,” Brendon mumbles.

“Why did I say no?”

“It would tempt me,” Brendon says, then adds quickly, “Sir.”

“It would, indeed,” Mr. Morris agrees. “I don’t want you to be temped, Brendon, not after all the hard work you’ve put in to become normal! It’s been such a long road for you, I’m sure you understand why I wouldn’t want to put you in a position where you might be temped to go back to your old ways?”

“Yes, sir,” Brendon says softly, though he can see straight through Mr. Morris’s lies.

“I was protecting you, Brendon,” Mr. Morris continues. “I care about you, I care about your success. I care about all the students’ successes. You just started becoming a model student - I would hate to see you slide down that path.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything because Mr. Morris doesn’t expect him to.

“I remember that you changed your course after a certain punishment,” Mr. Morris sounds like he’s smirking and Brendon tenses up. “What was it?”

“Six days, sir,” Brendon’s voice cracks. “Please-”

“I gave you a break, didn’t I?” Mr. Morris interrupts.

“A day out after three days in,” Brendon thinks he’s suffocating.

“That’s right,” Mr. Morris replies, as if he had forgotten. “You began suppressing remarkably well after that.”

Brendon’s lip is trembling and he murmurs a barely audible _please_.

“We believe in preemptive discipline at the Morris Institute, Brendon,” Mr. Morris says sternly. “We believe it’s best to stop the behavior before it becomes an actual problem. I tried to make this easy, Brendon, I gave you two warnings! You didn’t listen.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Brendon chokes out, but silences when Mr. Morris holds a hand up.

“I know you are, Brendon,” Mr. Morris says, all false sympathy. “I know. You want a second chance, I’m sure. But second chances leave room for the wrongdoing to repeat itself. I don’t want that. Understand?”

Brendon nods because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I think it’s the darkroom for you again, Brendon,” Mr. Morris’s voice is firm. Brendon flinches hard and squeezes his eyes shut. “Unless - you have some valuable information for me? About students who may be rebelling? Using their abilities without being caught?”

Brendon thinks about Patrick, his closest friend in here, thinks about the cut he healed in the bathroom and how he’s the only one that comforted him after the various punishments Brendon received.

He thinks about how cold and dark and tiny and horrifying the darkroom is and swallows hard.

“No, sir,” Brendon mumbles. “I don’t.”

“That’s a shame, Brendon,” Mr. Morris says. “I don’t want to do this, but you give me no choice. You’ve done this to _yourself._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers.

“Yes, and you’re going to prove it,” Mr. Morris snaps. “Seven days in the darkroom. Starting tomorrow at dawn. You are to come here at eight sharp, understand? If you don’t, it’ll be much worse for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Brendon chokes out.

“There, there,” Mr. Morris smirks. “You’ll see this is for your own good. You may go.”

Brendon leaves as quickly as he can.

\--

“Seven days?” Patrick demands. “Seven? What for?”

Brendon can’t even answer. He’s hyperventilating and shaking and his head feels close to exploding because if he has an outburst on top of this, it’ll be worse.

“Brendon, Brendon, breathe,” Patrick says desperately, shaking his shoulder. “C’mon, Brendon.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” Brendon babbles, covering his face with his hands. “I’d rather be caned, Patrick!”

“He didn’t give you any options?” Patrick asks, pulling Brendon close. Brendon grits his jaw.

“No,” he whispers. “None.”

Patrick rubs his back softly.

“It’s ok, Brendon,” Patrick’s voice is barely audible. “You’re not going in there. Promise.”

“How?” Brendon demands, voice cracking. “How can you say that?”

“Remember where you went after Mr. Morris humiliated you?” Patrick asks. Brendon swallows and nods.

“Yeah,” he whispers, shoving down the burning feeling that always accompanies that memory.

“Meet me there tonight,” Patrick instructs, voice even quieter. “Don’t bring anything. Except Bogart, you can bring Bogart. Wear clothes and shoes. And don’t get caught.”

Brendon desperately wants to question him more, but takes a shuddering breath and agrees.

\--

Bogart is cradled firmly against Brendon’s chest as he makes it to the top of the basement stairs. The plush dog fits in Brendon’s shirt securely, and Brendon is stupidly happy that Patrick said he could bring it. He would have brought it anyway, but Brendon occasionally enjoys getting permission for things. It’s a refreshing change of pace.

Brendon slides into the most shadowy corner, eyes straining to make out anything in the darkness. His ever-present headache flares up again but Brendon fights off the sound he wants to make.

The headaches will leave. Everyone promises they’ll leave.

Brendon sighs softly and turns to peek down the stairs. He jerks violently as a hand slides over his mouth but stills again at Patrick’s voice.

“Don’t yell!”

Brendon nods and Patrick lets him go. He jerks his head toward the basement stairs wordlessly, and though Brendon is apprehensive, he swallows hard and follows Patrick down.

At the bottom, Patrick fumbles in his pockets before producing a key to the basement door, tossing a look to Brendon before he’d even opened his mouth. Brendon huffs a little, adjusting his grip on Bogart, and following Patrick closely through the darkened basement.

He knows what they’re headed toward- there’s a door to the garden in the basement, and the garden gate is never guarded. Brendon’s heart leaps in anticipation and the water boiler gurgles warningly from behind them.

He clenches his teeth as Patrick gives him a wide-eyed, imploring look, and forces his ability back.

_Not right now, please, not tonight, please-_

Patrick pulls a second key out as they both approach the garden door. Their eyes meet and they simultaneously take a deep breath before Patrick slowly, slowly, unlocks the door and pulls it open.

Brendon inhales deeply at the cool night air and throws a small grin at Patrick.

“C’mon, let’s-” Patrick’s words are drowned out by the sudden shriek of the alarm. Patrick’s eyes get almost comically wide and Brendon’s heart seizes up as shouting echoes across the grounds.

_They’ll lock him away forever, in the dark, alone!_

The water boiler behind them explodes violently before Brendon had even finished the panicked thought. Steam hisses throughout the basement, and Patrick grabs Brendon’s wrist and drags him bodily into the garden, urging him to run, _run faster_! before the guards see them and stop them.

Brendon is dizzy, exhausted, body tingling with the aftereffects of such a powerful outburst. He struggles forward, fighting the pain and hazy feeling, but it’s useless. Brendon can’t even summon the power to fight as a security guard grabs him.

A tear slides down his cheek and he clenches his jaw against more because he can’t let them win like this, he can’t break all over again in that room!

“Brendon. Brendon, can you hear me?” the security guard is talking and when Brendon refocuses he recognizes Pete, the guard that was _kind_ , the one that never administered random beatings like the others did.

“Please, no,” Brendon tries to appeal to him and Pete squeezes his arm.

“I know you’re tired, I know,” Pete whispers, voice harsh and rough in his desperation. “But you need to run. You need to run and run and keep running no matter what until your body quits, do you understand?”

“Run?” Brendon asks hoarsely, confused. Pete nods seriously, eyes locking with Brendon’s.

“Run.”

\--

When Brendon blinks his eyes open again, it’s bright and sunny. He squints immediately, not used to the light after the dark, dark night he’d run through.

He looks around once his eyes adjust, taking in the surroundings he was too exhausted to see last night when he collapsed. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, looking from cactus to cactus to more sand and dirt.

It’s blazing hot, the heat rolling by in waves that make Brendon feel spent. It takes another long sigh and halfhearted stretch before he realizes he’d been tucked next to a boulder, which is casting some shade over him, thank _god_.

“Boulder?” he asks no one, nonsensical. He doesn’t remember much, but he knows he fell asleep flat on his back, eyes full of the wide expanse of stars, and the ground around him was flat and lifeless.

His sluggish brain was still trying to figure that one out when the roar of a dune buggy approaching seizes his immediate attention. He bites his lip hard and is stupidly grateful there’s no water around to give him away. He tucks himself closer to the boulder and prays that whoever’s out here will just keep going.

The dune buggy is getting closer, Brendon can tell, but he clings hard to the hope that they don’t know he’s there - a hope that fades rapidly as the dune buggy stops a few feet behind the boulder, engine dying. Brendon feels sick as two men’s voices become audible once the engine dies.

He bites back terrified tears as he pleads wildly to a god he hasn’t believed in in almost ten years. He can’t go back there. He _can’t_.

“You sure it’s this one?” The man sounds doubtful, but he’s answered with a scoff.

“I know which one it is, thanks, Zack,” comes the snide response. “I picked it myself, you know. So there’d be shade.”

“Well, _excuse_ me.” Brendon could _hear_ the eyeroll. “How do you even know this is an Obscure, anyway, if he was unconscious when you found him?”

Oh, _fuck_.

“He’s wearing the Institute uniform,” is the reply. “I recognized it. It looks just like Joe’s did.”

This can’t be happening. Brendon’s brain is wild, frantic, and if there was any water, he’d be screwed because he doesn’t have a prayer of suppressing himself now. Instead, he takes a huge breath of hot desert air and scrambles to his feet, intent on running as fast as he possibly can.

He won’t be taken by Obscure collectors, either.

“Hey, no!” one of the men shouts, but Brendon ignores it, running pell-mell across the sand. He's petrified, realizing they have a _vehicle_ , but before that thought connects, he’s slammed into, the force sending him sprawling to the ground.

“Sorry, little dude.” It’s the voice of the Zack guy, but Brendon doesn’t really care what his name is. He scrambles back, trying to get back to his feet when he hits another pair of legs and jerks back again.

“Don’t run,” the other guy says. His voice is gentle and Brendon chances a small glance upward. The man sees him looking and smiles gently at him, brown hair messy from the buggy and blue eyes kinder than even Patrick’s. “You’re wearing yourself out.”

“So what?” Brendon challenges, voice not nearly as strong and confident as he hoped for. “It’s not _your_ problem.”

“I’m worrying about you, so it’s become my problem,” the other man replies easily. “I’m Spencer, and this is Zack.”

“Hey, little dude,” Zack greets. “Water? It’s 115 already.”

Brendon takes the offered bottle cautiously. He hesitates a moment before taking a small sip, and the effect is immediate. His body _screams_ at him about how badly he needs water and he kind of zones out until someone’s tugging the bottle away.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” Spencer says gently, seeing Brendon’s distrust. “You’re starting to look ill.”

Brendon feels a wave of panic wash over him and he tries once more to get to his feet, to run, because no one is this kind, no one does this without wanting something, and Brendon has nothing.

He won’t give his life. He won’t give his ability.

“Hey, hey, don’t,” Spencer cajoles, grabbing Brendon’s upper arm firmly, but not roughly. Zack holds Brendon’s shoulder easily and Brendon flinches as Spencer takes a step forward. “Hey. Look at me. It’s ok.”

“Easy for you to say,” Brendon mumbles. “You’re not about to be sold to some freak with a house full of Obscure trophies.”

“We’re not collectors,” Zack says firmly. Spencer nods in agreement.

“Or traders,” he adds, squeezing Brendon’s arm gently. “I promise. We aren’t. I found you last night, but didn’t have the buggy. So I moved you to the shade until I could get back.”

“What are you, then?” Brendon demands, voice cracking. “What do you want?”

“We don’t want anything from you,” Spencer says, eyes open and honest. “We just want to help you, is all. We know you’re running away. You need help. We don’t want you caught and sent back, or killed.”

Brendon’s lower lip wobbles a little.

“I’m -” he whispers, then ducks his head. “I’m Brendon.”

“Hi,” Spencer whispers. “Would you like to stay with us?”

\--

Brendon has another large gap in his memory. This time, it’s for the better, as he vaguely remembers spending most of the buggy ride curled up on a seat, under a cool blanket, fighting nausea from the movement and from the heat and lack of water.

He figures he must have fallen asleep, and he’s pretty sure Zack carried him inside, but he only registered the cold, soft sheets, and then everything else fell away.

He doesn’t much care what happened, though, when he awakes feeling a little better. He feels gritty and dry and knows he needs water, but convincing himself to get out of bed takes effort he’s not sure he has.

Eventually, his body decides for him, and Brendon is hauling himself up and stumbling down the hall until he gets to the living room.

There’s a nest of pillows and blankets on the couch and Brendon frowns a little in confusion before noise catches his attention from the kitchen. Following the noise (and the smell that makes his stomach loudly comment), he pads onto the hardwood cautiously.

Spencer glances up at him from where he’s stirring something on the stove and smiles. Brendon smiles back before he realizes something.

“I kicked you out of your bed,” he whispers, mortified. Spencer laughs softly.

“That implies that I left involuntarily, which isn’t true,” he disagrees, and Brendon bites his lip.

“I stole your bed,” he argues, and Spencer rolls his eyes this time.

“I’m pretty sure that falls under that same response as the last thought,” he says, tone indulgent. He hands Brendon a glass. “Drink some water, then you can shower and I’ll feed you, and we need to talk.”

It doesn’t sound like a request, so Brendon swallows hard and nods. He gulps the water quickly, sighing internally as his parched throat is relieved. He hands the glass back to Spencer and hovers uncertainly until Spencer looks back over at him.

“Right,” he says sheepishly. “You have no idea where you are.”

Brendon cracks a hesitant grin as Spencer lays the spoon down and beckons Brendon out of the kitchen. He scoops clothing Brendon hadn’t noticed before off the end of the couch and hands them over before leading Brendon down the hall.

“Bathroom,” Spencer announces. “Feel free to use whatever you want. Food’ll be ready when you’re done.”

The door clicks shut behind Spencer as he leaves. Brendon closes his eyes and pinches his arm, _hard_.

“ _Ouch_ ,” he hisses. Well. That solves _that_ question.

He takes a deep breath and turns the water on.

\--

The soup Spencer had been making is _delicious_ , and Brendon actively tries to not shovel it into his mouth, but that’s pretty much a lost cause. He’s so hungry, he can’t remember the last time he ate something that wasn’t the cafeteria’s usual bland mush.

The basketball shorts Spencer had given him were too big, as was the t-shirt, but Brendon gives about zero fucks. It’s not the starched, stiff uniform he’d been wearing since his parents sent him to the Institute. He’d left the stupid thing on the bathroom floor and he hopes they burn it.

“Wait,” Brendon says, spoon paused halfway between his mouth and the bowl. Snippets of yesterday were coming back to him. “Wait, so you know other people from the Institute.”

Spencer looks up.

“Yeah,” he says. “One. His name is Joe.”

“Where is he?” Brendon asks, acutely aware he may be crossing some line he’s not sure about.

Spencer sighs.

“He’s around here, still,” he says gently. “He’s still a little torn up. I’m pretty sure when he escaped he ended up leaving someone behind and he can’t let that go.”

Patrick’s face swims unbidden to the front of Brendon’s mind and he swallows hard and puts the spoon down.

“Oh,” he says shakily.

“You did, too?” Spencer sounds like he already knows.

“I don’t know,” Brendon says helplessly, voice cracking. “I don’t - he might have gotten away but it was too dark and I had an outburst and -”

Brendon gulps air and buries his face in his hands.

“If he’s still there, I can’t stay here,” he says finally. Spencer pushes himself up from the table and walks around to kneel in front of him.

“You’re not going _anywhere_ , Brendon,” Spencer says firmly. “We will try and find your friend. If he’s there, we’ll do anything to get him out. But you aren’t going back there. I wouldn’t let Joe and I’m not letting you.”

Brendon furiously wipes tears from his eyes. He can feel the pressure mount in his chest and behind his eyes, and the water in his glass is vibrating but he can’t control it now, he can’t, all he can do is think about Patrick, poor Patrick, and if they caught him what they did to him and it’s _all Brendon’s fault_ -

The door slams open and Brendon jerks in surprise, the water in the glass spilling and the jug on the counter exploding under the pressure. He screams, he can’t help it, and stumbles back, pulling away from Spencer’s grip.

He tries to push the chair out of his way, to run run _run_ , but it won’t move. It won’t move and his hand feels glued to it, and no matter how much he struggles he can’t get away.

“Joe, _stop_!” Spencer snaps. “He’s terrified, stop!”

“He’s going to _hurt himself_ , Spencer!” Brendon’s never heard that voice before and he wildly thinks the Institute has found him, they’ve found him-

“Brendon,” Spencer says, shaking his shoulder. “Brendon, come on, take deep breaths. Come on.”

“I can’t move!” Brendon gasps out, forcing his eyes open to wordlessly plead with Spencer. Spencer shoots a nasty look over his shoulder and is answered with a sigh.

“Alright, but it’s not my fault if he tries to run away,” the same voice from before sounds exasperated, but the pressure all over Brendon’s body is suddenly gone, and he collapses to the floor, trembling.

“Brendon, it’s ok,” Spencer’s voice is soothing now, the same tone used during the ride from the desert to here. “It’s ok, Brendon, nice deep breaths, ok?”

Brendon listens to him, and though the breaths he takes to match Spencer’s are much more ragged, his heart slows back to normal within a few minutes.

“I didn’t mean to,” Brendon whispers brokenly. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, kid,” Brendon jumps and looks up at the owner of the voice. He’s tall, with wild curly hair and what seems like a permanent frown. His eyes are kind though, thoughtful, so Brendon thinks he can’t be all that angry. “You just don’t know what you’re doing yet.”

“You’re from the Institute,” Brendon mumbles, because it’s true. He recognizes him now. They had his picture plastered all over the school, with warnings about how he was dangerous and unhinged. Brendon never thought he looked anything close to that, but he was learning to keep his thoughts to himself. It saved on bruises.

The man smiles, ugly and twisted, and Brendon shrinks back. The man groans.

“No, kid, I didn’t mean -” he sighs.

“Joe,” Spencer says warningly. The man shoots him an unreadable look before crouching next to Brendon.

“I’m Joe,” he tries again. “And yes, I was at the Institute but I escaped. Like you.”

“I’m Brendon,” Brendon whispers back. “I didn’t mean to break the pitcher.”

“Are you telekinetic, too?” Joe asks, interested. Brendon shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and takes a shaky breath. He’s never told anyone besides Patrick, they weren’t supposed to talk about their abilities at school. “I can- I can do stuff. With water.”

“You can move it?” Spencer asks. Brendon shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “All I’ve ever done is explode things.”

“A worthy power,” Joe intones, and Brendon laughs.

“What kind of things?” Spencer asks, curiously. Brendon bites his lip.

“Water pitchers,” he says haltingly, and Joe laughs, too. “Uh, I’ve set sprinklers off. I break water pipes a lot. One time I cracked the swimming pool and flooded the Institute.”

“I _remember_ that!” Joe interrupts. “That was _you?_ ”

Brendon nods.

“But - but _damn_ , that happened when I was, like, fifteen!” Joe exclaims. “I’m twenty-one. How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” Brendon answers. He’s not entirely sure where this is going.

“You cracked an entire swimming pool when you were thirteen?” Spencer demands incredulously.

“It was an accident!”

“He can’t go back, Spencer,” Joe hisses. “You _have_ to keep him safe.”

“No!” Brendon protests. “You _promised_.”

“We’ll find him, Brendon,” Spencer says hurriedly. “But you can’t fall into Morris’ hands, he -”

“Just tell him,” Joe says softly. “He needs to know, anyway.”

“Tell me what?” Brendon asks, voice slightly shrill. “ _What_ is going on?”

Spencer and Joe exchange a glance, apparently silently fighting over who would start.

“Shane Morris,” Zack wanders in from where he’d been lounging on the couch, “is a fucking monster. I’m sure you’ve gathered that.”

“A little,” Brendon says softly, and Zack snorts.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of his _darkroom_ ,” Zack laughs and Brendon flinches violently, whimpering a little against his will. Every single person freezes.

“How many times did he put you in there, Brendon?” Spencer asks softly. Brendon’s shaking against his will, fighting the panic that wells up just thinking about the darkness.

“Once,” Brendon mumbles. “For six days.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Joe spits, banging his head against the wall.

“Ok,” Zack recovers. “Ok. He started the Institution in general for a couple reasons. One: he’s afraid of powers. He doesn’t understand them. It terrifies him. Two: he loves control. This gave him the _brilliant_ idea of forming a “school” for children with powers. The idea was that if you taught the children how to suppress their gifts and abilities from a young age, they’d go away. Poof! Nothing to be afraid of!”

“That wasn’t enough for him, though,” Joe cuts in. “Not much is enough for him. He loved the control he had over so many children. He loved making them do as he said. So he came up with this plan, that he’d hand pick children from his fucking prison and he’s brainwash them into using their powers for him.”

“He picked a kid to test this on,” Spencer’s voice wavers. “And it worked _amazingly_.”

“Ryan?” Brendon asks quietly. He’d seen the guy, following Mr. Morris occasionally. He looked barely older than Brendon, full of devotion to Mr. Morris. He used to spy on students for him. Brendon had fallen prey to the trick countless times.

He just could never decide if he was talking to the real Ryan or to the projection.

“So his plan worked,” Zack continues bitterly. “And now the only question is when to proceed- and how many children to use.”

“He wants to eliminate all those with powers that don’t suppress and follow his orders,” Joe sighs. “Then, he’ll create this _secret police_ that go to homes where gifted babies have been born and snatch them out of their parent’s hands. He wants to _sterilize_ all of us. He wants to quarantine us. _He_ got Proposition 8 onto the ballot.”

Brendon’s chin wobbles.

“What are we supposed to do?” his voice cracks on the question. “What’s the point?”

“Well,” Spencer says softly. “Shane Morris is quickly losing popularity. Rumors have spread about how he treats the children. There’s a resistance movement, and they’ve planted spies at the school, who release photographs to the press.”

“If we can get the public to turn on him enough,” Zack says. “Then his whole plan is flushed down the toilet and we can start working on people accepting those with gifts.”

“Why can’t I go back to find Patrick?” Brendon demands.

“Because you cracked a swimming pool when you were thirteen,” Joe says. “Because you’re the most powerful person I’ve ever met and you’re only nineteen. And you don’t even know it.”

“Because he’ll take you,” Spencer whispers. “Because you’re exactly who he wants to perfect his brainwashing on. If it works on someone as powerful as you, it’ll work on anyone.”

Brendon stares helplessly at Spencer.

“What can I do?” he says finally, and Joe laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

\--

Brendon kicks the door shut and feels satisfaction course through him. He drags the bucket across the living room towards the kitchen, making purposeful dying whale noises to illustrate his point.

“Why did I have to actually _pull_ the water from the well?” he whines once he gets to the kitchen. “It’s so _hot_. Why couldn’t I have just used this to practice?”

Spencer ignores him.

“ _Spencer_ ,” Brendon whines emphatically.

“You’d probably explode the well,” Joe says as he passes the doorway. Brendon tosses him a glare he doesn’t see before turning his scowl back on Spencer.

“Here is your water, your _majesty_ ,” he sticks his tongue out. “We have working taps, by the way.”

“Shut up,” Spencer says finally. “For once.”

Brendon flips him off and wanders out of the kitchen and down the hall. He sighs heavily, though no one is around to hear it, and kicks the wall halfheartedly.

He’s just frustrated. He kind of feels bad for everyone - Brendon being frustrated is just another phrase for Brendon being obnoxiously destructive. It’s always been like that.

Joe threw up his hands that morning and declared Brendon was too difficult to work with today. Spencer hasn’t spoken to him since, except to tell him to bring water in.

Brendon knows that they think he’s not trying. He knows it must look like that.

But it’s hard. He’s been here a little over a week and Joe’s worked with him almost nonstop to break down the block he’d built up in the Institute. If Brendon can let go of the suppression he clung to, then he will quickly learn to control himself. Or so Joe says.

But it’s so hard. It’s so terrifying to even think about not suppressing, let alone thinking about using his power on purpose. Every time he lets the block slip a little bit, the darkroom comes to mind and he freaks out.

He’s trying. He’s trying so hard, but he’s letting them all down.

He kicks the wall again.

“The wall did nothing to you,” Spencer says from behind him. His voice is hard to read and Brendon doesn’t really favor the idea of looking at him. He stays turned away, instead, slouching over to mask his trembling body.

“Whatever,” Brendon grumbles belatedly. Spencer doesn’t take the bait.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer asks and Brendon scowls hard.

“Nothing, why do you care?” he spits, and begins to stalk down the hall. He already feels the crushing guilt that comes every time he says anything bad to Spencer and he wants to get somewhere private before the tears start.

“ _Brendon_ ,” Spencer says in exasperation, grabbing Brendon’s arm and stilling his movements. “There’s no need for that.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I know you’re trying,” Spencer continues like he didn’t hear Brendon. “I admit, if I hadn’t met Joe before you, I might not believe it, but I do. I saw how hard it was for Joe, and he had months of practice on you before he came here.”

“Joe doesn’t-” Brendon argues, voice cracking horribly.

“Joe needs to learn to watch what he says,” Spencer corrects. “He could work with you fine today. He’s the one with an attitude problem.”

“Heard that,” Joe yells from down the hall.

“You were meant to!” Spencer snaps back and Brendon cracks a shaky grin. Spencer slides his hand down Brendon’s arm and squeezes his hand.

Brendon’s heart leaps and he hears the taps in the bathroom turn on. Spencer raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

“I’m trying,” Brendon says softly and Spencer smiles.

“I know,” he agrees, and tugs Brendon towards him. “Come on, come to the kitchen with me. You should learn how to do other things besides toast bread.”

“I can barely toast bread,” Brendon corrects under his breath, but follows Spencer obligingly.

They barely make it out of the hall before the front door is slammed open and Zack stumbles in, panting and sweating and frantic.

“Spencer,” he says instantly. “We have a problem.”

“What is it?” Spencer says immediately, body going rigid. Brendon’s hand is squeezed tight in Spencer’s, but he doesn’t make a sound.

“I got two calls,” Zack explains. “One from Pete and one from Andy. They’ve been found out. They both got away but they’re on opposite sides of the desert. Pete has someone with him, Andy is alone.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Spencer swears loudly and turns to yell down the hall. “Joe, get the fuck out here!”

“I’m coming, what the hell?” Joe shouts back, but Spencer ignores him and turns to Zack again.

“Take Joe,” he says. “Take the buggy, get Andy. I’ll take Brendon and the truck and get Pete. Dallon can watch the place, as usual, but we can’t leave Joe or Brendon here alone, not if Pete and Andy have been found out.”

“Fuck,” Joe repeats Spencer’s words. “Fuck, ok, let’s go. Zack, grab water and I’ll get the keys.” He runs to the living room and Zack takes off around the side of the house.

Spencer turns to Brendon.

“Go get water and put it in the bed of the truck,” he tells him. “Grab the two blankets out of the freezer, too. Don’t go _anywhere_ else. When you’ve done that, I’ll be out there, ok?”

Brendon nods, and takes off after Zack as soon as Spencer releases his hand.

Zack is just finishing filling two containers with water by the time Brendon gets to the well. He grabs the biggest container and begins filling it, squinting in the bright sun as he looks warily around him.

It’s eerily still out here compared to the madness of the house. Brendon can’t shake the feeling of being watched, of being stalked. He tells himself it’s just Dallon - whoever that is.

It’s fine.

It’s _fine_.

The container finishes filling and Brendon covers it before hefting it to the truck. He slides it into the bed, tying it down with rope as best he can. He runs into the garage and towards the large freezer he’s never looked inside before, pulling it open and spotting the blankets Spencer had talked about instantly.

He pulls them out and tosses them into the cab of the truck, glancing around again. The intensity of the gaze he feels on the back of his head makes him _sure_ someone is right behind him, but there’s no one there.

He swallows, but Spencer slams the front door before Brendon can get too uneasy.

“Done,” Brendon tells Spencer, who nods, looking up from whatever he’s carrying.

“Get in,” he says, and Brendon scrambles up into the cab of the truck. Spencer’s just setting the object down, and Brendon recognizes it as a GPS. It’s blinking at him, a red dot moving slowly across the screen.

The truck roars to life and pulls onto the street, driving down the road at a breakneck speed.

“Watch the GPS,” Spencer shouts over the air rushing past the perpetually open windows. “Tell me if they make any sudden changes.”

Brendon nods and stares at the dot on the screen. It must be Pete, he realizes, and remembers that Zack said Pete had someone with him.

Brendon’s heart seizes up. _Patrick?_

He’s jerked from that thought as Spencer makes a hairpin turn off the main road and down a dirt side street.

“There’s some cars at the end of the road,” he tells Brendon lowly, their speed now down to a crawl almost. “I don’t know who they are, but they’re blocking it for something.”

“Are we here?” Brendon asks, pointing to a blue triangle at the bottom of the screen he hadn’t noticed before.

Spencer glances over before nodding.

Brendon cocks his head, dragging his finger up from the triangle towards the circle, following a winding line he’s pretty sure they hadn’t been on.

“Can we take this?” he asks, looking up at Spencer. “The way they’re headed, they’ll cross it eventually. We can either beat them or at least gain some ground.”

Spencer looks slightly surprised.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That would work. Good eyes.”

Brendon grins and Spencer grins back.

“Hold on, then,” Spencer says before laying on the gas and blasting down the street towards the road Brendon found.

\--

It seems to take forever, boiling hot desert air whipping past them and heating up the cab of the truck almost unbearably. Brendon doesn’t care much, though, because they’ve almost found Pete. Brendon’s eyes flicker from the GPS, where their little shapes are quickly meeting up, and the expanse of open land around them, trying to pick out human forms.

“There!” Brendon shouts suddenly. He sees them now- two figures, one half carrying the other, hobbling more than running at this point. Spencer turns off the road and barrels towards them. Brendon can see one look up and try to take off running again but the heat must have caught up with them because they both tumble to the ground.

Brendon’s out of the truck almost before Spencer’s stopped it. He runs towards the two collapsed figures, Spencer hot on his heels, and he falls to his knees next to Pete.

“Pete?” he says urgently, shaking his shoulder. Pete’s eyes open, exhaustion melting away in favor of relief as he recognizes Brendon.

“Oh, God,” Pete groans. “Thank God. Jesus Christ.”

“What’s his name?” Spencer demands suddenly. “Pete, what’s his name? He’s not moving.”

Brendon glances over.

“Patrick!” he cries at the same time Pete answers. He scrambles over to Patrick’s side, pushing the dirty blond hair off his forehead and looking at him fearfully.

“I had to carry him most of the way,” Pete says, voice hoarse. “I found out - Andy came to tell me that Morris knew about us, and - I had to take him with me, Spencer.”

“Why?” Spencer asks, but Brendon doesn’t care. He kisses his friend’s cheek gently and almost screams with joy as Patrick’s eyes flutter open and he groans.

“Patrick,” Brendon whispers. “Patrick, it’s me, it’s Brendon.”

“Bren?” Patrick murmurs, confused. “Brendon? No, he said - he told me - he told everyone that you - you tried to escape and you were taken by Collectors.”

“No,” Brendon tells him softly. “No, I got away. I’m so sorry, I left without you, I’m sorry -”

“ _Brendon_ ,” Patrick tries to sit up, but Brendon won’t let him. “Don’t, don’t be - I’m so glad you’re ok -”

Brendon hugs Patrick tightly, as best he can, until Spencer nudges him off and stoops to scoop Patrick off the ground. He lays him in the bed of the truck and gestures for Brendon to follow.

Brendon’s hands are shaking, but he manages to pry the top off the water container and fill one cup for Pete and another for Patrick. He helps Patrick up, supporting him as he leans against Brendon, and hands him the cup.

“Water,” Brendon whispers. “Here, Patrick, drink it. It’s water.”

Patrick gulps it down and leans heavily against Brendon.

“You found us,” he says softly, and Brendon nods furiously.

“I wouldn’t have not,” he tries to explain, and Patrick laughs weakly.

“Pete,” he says. “Pete, he saved me, Brendon. I - I thought I would die, but he and Andy pulled the door open and Pete took me and - I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Door?” Brendon’s voice cracks. “What door, Patrick?”

He knows what door. He knows it well. He doesn’t want to believe it.

“It’s not your fault, Brendon,” Patrick whispers. “It’s not. I’d been planning on this, with Pete, for so long, and Pete told me I shouldn’t bring you.”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want you to escape, Brendon,” Pete tries to explain. “I just - I didn’t know if this would work at all and I didn’t want -”

Brendon shakes his head.

“It’s ok, I understand,” he says with a small smile, because he _does_. He knows if it were reversed, if it was him and Patrick and _Spencer_ \- Spencer would say the same thing.

He’s sure that’s why Spencer’s looking anywhere but at Pete.

Understanding is rough, sometimes.

Patrick groans and his face pales. Brendon tugs him to the side of the truck and Spencer and Pete both step quickly away as Patrick vomits. Spencer grabs one of the cool blankets and tosses it to Brendon, who waits for Patrick to nod before draping it over him and refilling his water cup.

“Give Pete one,” he tells Spencer, but Pete shakes his head.

“Give Patrick both, I’m fine,” he says dismissively, and Spencer and Brendon give him matching unimpressed looks. “Both of you are too good at that.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Spencer says firmly. “You won’t be any use to Patrick if you get heatstroke, too.”

“Pete, please,” Patrick murmurs. Pete sighs shakily and Brendon notices how pale he is for the first time.

“Spencer, let’s go,” Brendon says softly. “Pete, come up here, you need more water.”

“If you fall out of this truck and die, I will kill you,” Spencer says lowly as he passes Brendon on his way to the driver’s side. Brendon rolls his eyes.

“Just drive, your highness,” he tells him, and Spencer slams the door. Pete closes the tailgate with some effort, and Spencer starts the engine.

“Drink the water, Pete,” Patrick says. “Come on, drink it.”

“You,” Pete argues, and Brendon sighs.

“Touching, really touching,” he groans, unfolding the other blanket and throwing it at Pete. “Lay down. You can even lay down next to Patrick. As long as you _lay the fuck down_ and stay still.”

Pete doesn’t seem to have heard anything beyond ‘lay down’ and ‘Patrick’, because he’s already there, one of Patrick’s hands clutched in his, eyes locked worriedly on Patrick’s pale face.

“I’m ok,” Patrick whispers. “I’ll be ok.”

Pete leans in and kisses Patrick gently.

“No, I threw up, Pete,” Patrick protests, but doesn’t push him away.

“I don’t care,” Pete replies. “I love you. I should have gotten you out sooner.”

“Would have broken your cover,” Patrick argues but Pete shakes his head. Brendon can see tears in his eyes and he’s suddenly acutely aware he’s intruding on a personal moment. He tears his gaze away and looks up front.

Spencer’s hair is messy from the wind, and he’s driving with one hand supporting his head and the other on the wheel. Brendon feels his heart twist unpleasantly as he pictures Spencer’s easy smile, the way his hand felt in Brendon’s.

It’s too dry out here for his powers to work, he tells himself, even as the low, nonthreatening clouds begin to spit rain.

\--

“I can’t do it, I can’t,” Brendon’s frustration is threatening to boil over and his head hurts so badly but the block is _so strong_. He can’t get past it. He can’t.

“Come on, Brendon,” Spencer cajoles. It’s him, today. Joe is working with Patrick and Brendon had been trying alone, but. “I know it’s hard. It’s not your fault.”

Brendon groans as his head throbs.

“It’s like a _wall_ ,” he grits out. “And every time I touch it, it hurts so badly.”

“What hurts?” Spencer asks, concerned. Brendon barely refrains from whimpering as his head inches closer to what seems like splitting open. He tries to sink to the floor but Spencer grabs him around the waist.

That _doesn’t help_. Brendon’s heart leaps in his chest, just like every other fucking time Spencer touches him, but the wall is too strong for an outburst, so the emotion just ricochets off his aching head. He tries not to cry.

“My head,” Brendon finally manages to answer. “I always get headaches when I - when it’s suppressed.”

“Oh,” Spencer whispers, pulling him into a brief hug. “Poor thing. Oh my God, Brendon, why didn’t you _say something?_ ”

“What would that have done?” Brendon asks through clenched teeth. Spencer sighs.

“I could have given you _painkillers_ ,” he says. “Oh my God, no wonder you were having so much trouble.”

Brendon wants to sleep for days.

Without warning, Spencer brushes Brendon’s hair off his forehead and kisses him gently there, friendly, caring. Brendon’s breath catches in his chest and there’s a shout from down the hall.

“Goddamn it, Brendon!” Zack screeches. “What the hell!”

Brendon can’t help it- he bursts into hysterical giggles and Spencer huffs a laugh, too.

“Come on,” he says finally, with a fond smile. “Let’s fix that headache.”

Brendon tells himself the leap in his chest is just excitement that he won’t be in pain soon.

\--

It’s getting really hard to explain away the catches in his breath when Spencer is near, or the fast beating of his heart when Spencer smiles.

Now that his headache is gone for the most part, the block Brendon has been fighting so hard seems to melt away. He’s beginning to learn how to focus his energy, how to purposefully use his gift instead of having is just explode out of him uncontrolled.

It’s extremely exciting, but Brendon’s nowhere near perfect. He still has outbursts nearly every day - though they’re smaller than they used to be, water damage is still pretty destructive. Brendon thinks everyone is a saint for putting up with it.

Complicating things is how Brendon can tie down outbursts to one or two emotions: when he’s upset, and when Spencer is around.

Brendon refuses to give that emotion a name. Maybe if he ignores it, it’ll go away.

 _Not likely_ , he thinks ruefully. He sips his lemonade from his spot on the porch and watches Pete, Zack, Joe and Spencer do gross manly things with a football. In the desert. In summer.

“Dumbasses,” Patrick says fondly. He sits next to Brendon and nudges him in the ribs. “Did you notice the way Andy looked at Joe this morning?”

“People in space could notice the way Andy looked at Joe this morning,” Brendon says absently, eyes still following Spencer’s movements.

“Mhm,” Patrick hums. He’s smirking, Brendon can tell without looking at him. He pinches Patrick’s arm, ignoring the injured squawk. He doesn’t have the time nor energy for Patrick’s sly digs at Brendon today.

It isn’t enough to deter Patrick, apparently.

“You know what else people in space can notice, Brendon?” he asks, batting Brendon’s hand away. “The way you _always_ look at Sp -”

“Pete!” Brendon yells. “Patrick’s drinking your soda!”

“Fuck you, Brendon!” Patrick yelps, scrambling up as Pete sprints across the yard toward them. “I hate you so much!”

“Bye!” Brendon smirks as Patrick takes off around the house, Pete in hot pursuit.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Spencer says, dropping into Patrick’s vacated seat. Brendon makes a noncommittal noise and takes a very careful sip of his lemonade. There’s a reason he isn’t drinking water.

“You’re supposed to be drinking water,” Spencer admonishes, on the same wavelength as usual. Brendon cuts his gaze over to Spencer and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Spencer’s face is pink, and his hair is tousled and sweaty. He’s got a grin on his face that could probably kill Brendon if he looked at it long enough, and he's just sitting _too close_.

It’s too much. It’s really too much. He stands up, handing his lemonade to Spencer.

“Hold this,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

No, he won’t. What he _does_ do is go inside the house and to the back bedroom, where he opens the window and climbs out, taking off down the street, out of sight of everyone else.

Brendon never claimed to be smart.

He runs until he’s sure he’ll collapse, then he slows to a walk. The summer sun is setting, had been since he left the house, but it’s still hellishly hot out. Brendon sticks to the parts of the sidewalk that have shade, though those are only marginally cooler than the actual sidewalk.

He’s so fucking stupid. He can’t believe he keeps letting this happen!

It’s only because everyone else is pretty much in love, and Brendon’s always been romantic, and Spencer saved his life. It’s just infatuation. It’ll pass.

Brendon can smell the goddamn lie in that from a mile away, but he’s so desperate for an excuse, he’ll cling to anything at this point.

“Explain to me when ‘I’ll be right back’ turned into ‘I’ll sneak out the back window and run away like an idiot’,” Spencer asks, voice flat. Brendon freezes.

He forgets, sometimes, that Spencer knows him almost too well, now. And Brendon forgot to make an active effort to avoid places he usually goes.

He sighs and looks up at Spencer. His arms are crossed and he looks supremely unamused. Brendon bites his lip and wracks his mind to come up with some excuse. He’s pretty sure that being afraid of Patrick’s retaliation wouldn’t fly, but he opens his mouth to try anyway.

“You were not afraid of Patrick,” Spencer interrupts, and Brendon shuts his mouth with an audible click. “What the hell is going on, Brendon? What are you afraid of? I know it’s not outbursts. You know we’re never going to be angry at you for those.”

“I flooded the basement,” Brendon says, like it’s an argument. He doesn’t add that he’d done that after walking in on Spencer in the shower. Spencer hadn’t noticed, but Brendon noticed _too well_. And then gave into the temptation and when he came, he may have exploded a pipe in the basement.

“ _Brendon_ , for fuck’s sake,” Spencer groans. “I know you’re not upset about that. I know we’ve gotten through your thick skull that it’s not your fault. We’re adaptable.”

“I can’t -” Brendon tries, clenching his hands into fists. The familiar pressure is back and he fights with it, tries to shove it down, to tell it _no, not now_. It’s not working, and Spencer must see it, because he approaches Brendon very slowly.

“You can,” he says softly. “It’s ok, Brendon. There’s nothing to be upset about. Take a deep breath. You’re ok.”

Brendon gulps down air, tries to plead with his ability, tries to talk the surging energy down, but it’s just building and building and _building_ and Spencer is too close, he’s too close and Brendon can’t take it and-

Spencer gently touches his shoulder and Brendon immediately loses the battle. The fire hydrant three feet away explodes impressively and the sprinklers all down the block turn on at once. Brendon flinches violently and puts his hands over his face, giving up and letting the tears fall.

“Brendon,” Spencer says softly. “It’s ok. It’s still ok. It was an accident.”

“Don’t -” Brendon gasps as Spencer moves to pull him into a hug. He doesn’t think he has any energy left but he can’t be sure, he can’t -

“Brendon,” Spencer says firmly. “You have to tell me what’s wrong. We can’t change anything if you aren’t honest.”

“You’ll _hate me_ ,” Brendon mumbles and Spencer huffs.

“Impossible,” he says firmly, and Brendon caves. He reaches forward and drags Spencer closer by his shirt, meeting his lips for the most uncoordinated kiss ever. Brendon can’t even spare a thought to realize that this is his _first kiss_ , all he can do is cling to Spencer hard and kiss him with all he’s got.

By the time Spencer gently pulls away, Brendon is breathless and dazed and probably incoherent. All he could see, all he could _taste_ was Spencer and _God_ he’s so _fucked_.

“I – I -” he babbles, trying to pull away and run again because seriously, _what was he thinking?!_

But Spencer’s gotten ahold of his arm and he won’t let go, and Brendon’s about to break down and cry.

“I’m sorry, I’m -”

“Brendon,” Spencer says firmly. “Shut up.”

And he yanks Brendon forward again and crushes their mouths together, kissing Brendon hard and deep and fast and oh, _God_ -

Sarcastic cheering and applause break them apart again, but Brendon can’t spare a glance to see who it was. All he can do was stare helplessly at Spencer, at his dark blue eyes, his _lips_.

“As glad as I am that you two have finally pulled your heads out of your asses,” Zack sounds deeply sarcastic, but Brendon can tell he’s pleased. “Someone will have noticed Brendon’s new addition to the neighborhood, so why don’t we head back.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Spencer says dismissively. “We’re coming.”

Brendon bursts into giggles and Spencer rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself.

“Idiots,” Zack says fondly, and Spencer takes Brendon’s hand.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “I am.”

\--

The thing about getting to kiss Spencer whenever he wanted is that it results in Brendon having far less outbursts.

Turns out bottling up your emotions is not a good plan when you’re trying to learn to control your abilities. Who knew?

“ _I_ knew,” Joe grunts, throwing the pillow back at Brendon. “You’re a _moron_. Throw that back at me and watch again how I focus on it.”

Brendon chucks the pillow as hard as he can at Joe’s face. It’s ineffective - Joe stops it with an exaggerated glance.

“But that’s stopping a flying object,” Brendon points out. “How does that translate to moving water?”

“It’s how you _focus_ the energy,” Joe explains again, still patient. “That part remains the same. Patrick focuses his energy on an injury. I focus my energy on an object. You focus yours on water.”

“Would I be able to manipulate things that have water in them?” Brendon asks slowly. Joe frowns.

“Like a glass?” he asks. “That might actually be a good thing to try. It might be easier to start with that, with something you can grab and hold.”

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, and turns to head to the kitchen. “Careful, if this works I’ll end up being better than you!”

Joe laughs, the sound following Brendon into the kitchen, where he picks up a glass from the counter. He fills it and turns to head back to the living room, opening his mouth to make another snide comment at Joe.

The words never leave his mouth.

In an instant, everything is upended. Brendon’s ears are ringing and he’s dazed at the force of whatever just exploded. He blinks dust out of his eyes and squints around him, sluggish mind trying to process the chunks of plaster and burning wood littering the floor.

He hears his name being called, sort of. It’s muffled, muted beneath the buzzing filling his ears. Car alarms down the street are going off, and someone next door is screaming, but Brendon can’t focus on anything. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and looks up to meet Mr. Morris’ eyes.

“No,” he whispers, and Morris smirks.

“We’ve missed you,” Mr. Morris taunts. “Time to go home.”

\--

The first thing Brendon’s aware of when his consciousness returns is the splitting headache. It feels like his skull has been cracked open and left there, and it’s all he can do to not make a sound in response to it.

Everything in him is screaming that something is wrong. The pain isn’t right, the fact that he can’t move isn’t right - wherever he is just isn’t right.

“How much training has he had, though?” Brendon thinks he could recognize that voice, if he focused, but when he tries, his head protests viciously. He lets his head loll forward instead, listening intently to the conversation as it draws nearer.

“Who knows,” Morris hisses. “He’s been gone almost half a year. He could have total control for all I know.”

“But he still makes mistakes,” the other voice reasons. “So he can’t have too much control.”

“As far as I know, his mistakes were because of some _emotional issue_ ,” Morris is sneering, Brendon can tell. “That got resolved, apparently, because there’s been zero accidents at the residence in a couple months. The last one was the one we got tipped about, the hydrant outside.”

 _Fuck_.

Brendon schools his face into total blankness, smoothing his features as if he was still out. It’s a technique perfected because of the Institute, and Brendon’s grateful he can still call on it.

He frantically tries to piece together what must’ve happened in the blanks in his memory. They broke in - that must have been the explosion. But did they grab Brendon and leave? Or -

“Are the others in with him?”

 _No_ , Brendon pleads silently. _Let them have escaped._

“A couple,” Morris says dismissively. “The two other Obscures that were there are confined elsewhere, but all the humans are in there.”

“Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” the other voice asks delicately. Morris snorts.

“Sure,” he agrees. “But it won’t be when I’m done. I’m going to take the Obscure for my own, right in front of his little friends. And he’ll turn on them and they’ll realize that Obscures cannot be trusted.”

“Brilliant,” the other man breathes.

“Two birds with one stone,” Morris laughs, and Brendon hears a door click open.

“How’s everyone doing?” Morris calls into the room, hitting the lights. Brightness floods the room and Brendon barely refrains from wincing as it pierces through even his closed eyes. He stays still, breathing steady, unconscious. To them.

Two other people groan, and Brendon immediately identifies them as Pete and Zack. He’s not sure if they’re the only ones in here or if Morris got ahold of Andy and – and -

Brendon breathes, calms himself. He pictures the anchor he’s been imagining with Joe and places it on top of the out of control feelings, weighing them down.

He needs to be in control now. He needs to be able to fool them.

It’s his turn to do something.

“Good morning,” Morris croons. There’s a sick smack, fist on flesh, and someone collapses to the floor. “Pete, you piece of traitorous shit. I’m so disappointed in you. Andy, too, but I’m dealing with him.”

“Despicable,” the other voice mutters. Morris smacks someone again, and Brendon stays still.

“I didn’t invite you to talk, Ryan,” Morris snaps. Oh. That explains the mystery voice, then, and Brendon breathes deep. “And who are you?”

Zack - it had to be Zack - laughs and spits. Brendon groans internally. He should have known Zack wouldn’t know how to do anything else but be impudent. Morris sighs before another sound registers in Brendon’s mind.

Morris hits Zack with the cane again and laughs.

“You are all pathetic,” he spits. “Protecting Obscures. They’d never protect you, you know.”

 _Wrong_ , Brendon thinks. He needs to look around, to see if there’s anything he can manipulate, but he doesn’t. He doubts it, anyway. Morris is many things, but stupid is not one of them.

“Sir!”

Someone bursts in the room, panting. They set something heavy down, and it sloshes around wildly.

Brendon feels the energy in his chest build with recognition.

Morris isn’t stupid - but the same can’t be said for the people that work for him.

Ryan and Morris are in some sort of yelling match with the stranger, but Brendon couldn't care less. His attention is solely on his ability, bubbling underneath his anchor.

 _If I let the anchor go_ , Brendon pleads silently. _You need to listen to me. You have to do what I ask. Please. I need you to._

He can’t tell if his power will listen or not. It does, sometimes, and Brendon desperately needs now to be one of those times.

The memory of the ruins the explosion left comes immediately to Brendon’s mind. Brendon allows it, encourages it, conjures up more images. He imagines what Pete and Zack’s faces look like, what Andy and Joe and Patrick are going through, the state of all his friends.

He thinks of Spencer, and that’s enough.

_Listen to me!_

“Fuck, fu -” the panicked shouts are muffled immediately and Brendon snaps his eyes open. His heart leaps as the picture in front of him matches exactly with the command he’d pictured in his mind.

Trails of the foul, disgusting water brought by Morris’ employee extend from the bucket towards the three men, wrapping over and over around their heads until they cover the mouth and nose of each man.

Morris’ eyes are huge and disbelieving as he looks at Brendon, but Brendon doesn’t care. He barely registers that Pete and Zack have scrambled to untie him from the fucking chair Morris had put him in, but once they’ve released him, he stands.

“Where are they?” he demands lowly. Worry and anger pound with his heart, but not fear.

Brendon isn’t afraid of Shane Morris anymore.

Morris’ eyes don’t change, just hold his gaze, steady and challenging.

Fine, then.

He turns to Morris’ employee.

“Do you know where the rest of us are?” he asks, voice false and sweet. He knows he looks murderous. He’s glad.

The employee nods desperately.

“If you tell me where they are, I’ll let you go,” Brendon offers. The man nods again, frantic, and Brendon focuses on his strand, lifts it just enough for the man to take a huge breath and speak.

“We’re at the Institute, in the basement,” the employee chokes out. “Everyone else that Mr. Morris brought in earlier are locked in his office and in the darkroom. Please let me go.”

Brendon waves.

“Bye,” he says, and the man takes off. Brendon hears a crash from behind him and turns. Ryan has slumped over, losing consciousness.

“Oh, dear,” Zack says sardonically. “One down, I guess.”

“Where are your keys, _Mr. Morris_?” Pete asks, mouth twisted in a nasty smirk. “Let’s make this easy.”

Morris makes no move to do anything, though his lips through the water look slightly blue.

“That’s a shame,” Brendon’s heart pounds in fury. He forces himself to focus on _this_ , do _not_ focus on the darkroom and who’s in it. He rakes his gaze over Mr. Morris and spots a keyring hanging off his beltloop. “Look at this.”

Zack yanks it off and holds it up.

“Seems useful,” Brendon concludes. “Thank you so very much, Mr. Morris, and have a nice day.”

With that, Brendon turns and sprints up the stairs, the other two close behind. The persona he’d stepped into in the basement fades away with every step, and the worry and anxiety and _Spencer Patrick Spencer Patrick SPENCER_ returned to reverberate throughout his brain, full force.

“Brendon, wait,” Pete gasps. “You’re going to leave them?”

“Did he pass out?” Brendon pants. Zack nods. “It’s fine, the water goes back to normal when I leave. They’ll wake back up in like twenty minutes, so we should _move_.”

“You and Zack go get the ones in Morris’ office,” Pete orders. “I’ll get the darkroom.”

“It takes two people to open the darkroom door, Pete,” Brendon says desperately. “Switch.” He hands Pete the office key.

“Are you sure?” Pete asks quietly. Brendon meets his gaze.

“Sure,” he says shakily. “It’ll be a blast, right Zack?”

“Right,” Zack replies, full of bravado.

“Ok,” Pete whispers. “Good luck.”

“We get our people and we get out, Pete,” Brendon says. “Remember the lake?”

“There, yeah,” Pete agrees. “Go!”

Brendon goes.

\--

Staring down the darkroom door is a challenge Brendon never envisioned having to face. He squares his shoulders and reaches for the key. Zack hands it to him after a slight moment of hesitation, and Brendon exhales hard as he walks up to the keyhole.

“Ready?” he asks Zack without looking at him. Zack lays a hand firmly on Brendon’s shoulder.

“Let’s rescue them, Bren,” he says softly, and counts off. “One, two -”

On three, they both push with every ounce of their strength. The door groans and creaks, sparking in Brendon’s memory, but he shoves it aside, drops the anchor back on top of the surging energy.

He has one job right now and he’s going to fucking do it. He clicks the flashlight on and glances at Zack, who nods.

“I’ll be right here,” he promises. “You’re going to walk in and walk out. I promise.”

“I know,” Brendon says quietly. “Thank you, Zack.”

“Always, little dude,” Zack cracks a smile and Brendon shakily returns it before facing the darkness again and taking a deep breath.

“Who’s in here?” he calls out softly. “It’s Brendon. Who’s in here?”

He shines the flashlight around, struggling to see in the pitch darkness that remains even with the door open. The beam catches a shoe and Brendon freezes.

“Patrick?” he asks softly. “It’s ok, Patrick, I’m gonna get you out.”

“I’m fine,” Patrick’s hoarse voice makes Brendon almost cry in relief. “Brendon, I’m fine. It’s only been a few hours. But-they knocked Spencer out before they threw us in here and he hasn’t woken up and I can’t see what there is I can heal.”

“Spencer?” Brendon chokes and reaches forward. Patrick grabs his hand and squeezes.

“Come on,” he urges. “Let’s get him out.”

Brendon chokes on another sob and nods, letting Patrick guide his hands forward to Spencer’s arms. He tucks the flashlight under his chin and pulls hard with Patrick.

_Come on, come on, just a little farther-_

“Jesus Christ,” Zack breathes. Brendon chances a look and almost collapses.

“Spencer!” he cries. He can’t breathe, he can’t -

Spencer’s face is a mess, a wreck of cuts and abrasions and bruises and what looks like a broken nose. Brendon grabs Spencer’s hand and clings, looking desperately at Patrick.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs. “Please, I can’t, I won’t leave without him.”

Patrick nods.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

Brendon barely processes Patrick’s movements, eyes locked on Spencer instead. He counts off in his head, matching Spencer’s soothing words time and time again when he felt like he couldn’t come down from an energy surge.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

By the time Brendon hits thirteen, Spencer groans and blinks his eyes open.

“ _Spence_ ,” Brendon’s voice cracks and he ducks down to kiss Spencer as hard as he dares.

“Brendon, you - you’re ok, oh god, you’re ok,” Spencer breathes, cupping Brendon’s cheeks in his hands and looking at him with wide, relieved eyes.

“He’s more than ok,” Zack tells Spencer. “He used his gift and got us out. He’s the reason we’re here right now.”

“Brendon,” Spencer whispers and Brendon kisses him again.

“Let’s go home,” Brendon suggests, and Spencer’s laugh is echoed by Zack and Patrick.

\--

**_epilogue_ **

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Joe announces, screen door slamming behind him. “I am the bearer of amazing news.”

“Do tell,” Patrick says dryly, and Joe shoots him a look.

“I will, thanks for your input, Patrick,” Joe informs him, and Patrick just laughs.

“Then get on with it,” Zack says. “I’m in the middle of kicking Spencer’s ass here.”

“The score is 41-7 in Spencer’s favor,” Brendon points out.

“It’s going to be a slaughter,” Zack promises.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Joe says loudly. “I thought you’d all like to know that as of today, Morris Institute does not exist.”

Brendon whoops and leaps on the couch, almost tumbling off before Spencer catches him. Patrick laughs, loud and delighted, and the noise brings Andy and Pete in from the back porch.

“What’s this now?” Andy asks as Pete heads straight for Patrick’s side, as usual.

Joe beams.

“Due to the failure of Prop 8 and the subsequent arrest of one Shane Morris,” Joe says, and Brendon and Patrick hiss in unison at the name. “The Morris Institute for Different Children has been officially disbanded and every child trapped there is being fostered and/or adopted.”

Brendon covers his face, briefly overwhelmed. He can’t help but wonder - what if he was still little? What if he was still young and still there - would he get parents that loved him?

Spencer slides his arms gently around Brendon’s waist and Brendon mentally shakes himself.

Who knows if he _would have?_

He knows what he does have, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Spencer kisses him gently and Brendon thinks about learning how to swim.

It could come in handy.

**Author's Note:**

> Woah, a fic with a HAPPY ending? Incredible! New year, new me, not really.
> 
> i live and breathe brencer and peterick at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


End file.
